


Simple Life Was Not for Us

by goingmywaydoll



Category: Reign (TV)
Genre: F/M, probably gonna regret this lbr, season 2 spec fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-11-04
Packaged: 2018-02-11 02:26:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,017
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2049861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goingmywaydoll/pseuds/goingmywaydoll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let it be known that Francis de Valois does not respond well to jealousy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dead Hearts Are Everywhere

**Author's Note:**

> someone tell my why i thought this was a good idea
> 
> ps thanks to @poligirl25 for the inspiration! wouldn't be here without you.
> 
> (by the way, the general summary for this story is that louis, prince of conde (the guy from the spoilers), has come to court planning something while francis and mary are fighting about the baby. they're on really bad terms and louis flirts with mary which makes everything worse. just thought you guys should know something about it)
> 
> rating may go up in later chapters idk
> 
> chapter title comes from the stars song "dead hearts are everywhere"

It takes Louis approximately one week and two days to put his finger on Mary’s weak spot.

“Your Grace,” he says as he bows before her, a very obvious air of confidence exuding from his presence, “Without your husband again?”

“The King is preoccupied,” she says, smiling lightly. She is in no mood to discuss Francis’s absence with the Prince of Blood slinking around each corner. The moment he came to Court with slick words and sly kisses on the hand, she didn’t trust him. As if it wasn’t enough that Francis was spending any time he wasn’t being king as a father. It seems you cannot be a father, a king and a husband in this world.

“Preoccupied?” the prince asks, one eyebrow raised. “Is that what we’re calling these days?”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, though she knows that all of court and probably all of France knows of Francis’s bastard child. But the way Louis’s eyebrow is cocked tells her he’s not talking about the baby and it fills Mary with an unavoidable sense of jealousy and disgust.

“Well, I commend you for being such a _dutiful_ wife,” he says and Mary nods in thanks, banishing any thought of Lola and her husband from her mind.

“Mary, you are needed over here,” Catherine’s omnipresent voice carries across the room. Mary smiles at Louis (because that is what she is supposed to do) and walks over to Catherine before he even rises from his bow.

“You looked as though you needed help,” Catherine says, leaning over the arm of the throne slightly as Mary lowers herself to the throne.. Mary is taken aback—Catherine has never been one to offer help to anyone without her own personal gain. She seems to read the young queen’s mind though, adding, “I know what it’s like. They think your marriage is a lost cause, they grapple for power, for any sort of favor with a broken hearted queen. And I see Prince Louis has no qualms about flirting with a married queen.”

“Married? Am I still?” she asks dryly. “Someone should tell my dear husband.”

Catherine cracks a humorless smile at Mary’s comment but says no more in regards to her son’s marriage. Everyone in court knows that the king and queen have barely spoken two words besides the ones that concern their countries.

"Speaking of," Mary says, looking up as she sees Francis stride into the room purposefully. She feels a pang of pride for him in her heart as he sends Catherine a look. Catherine responds in kind, vacating the throne beside Mary for her son. Francis takes it, ever the regent and they begin their day of receiving subjects. 

 

* * *

 

Francis waves away the last subject and nods to the advisors around the room. They immediately understand and bow to their king, leaving the couple alone. 

"I don't know who I'm more angry at, you or me," Mary says softly as Francis stands. He scoffs and rolls his eyes, refusing to look at her. 

“I can tell you who I'm more mad at," he says, barely missing a beat.

"Oh no, that's quite all right. The whole of court knows anyways," she says, her walls going right back up. He looks tired, she realizes. On the surface he looks normal, of course. He is a king, he doesn't have the privilege of looking tired.

(“We who are so privileged in anything but that,” he had said to her)

But his eyes are closer to grey rather than blue and his short hair, while making him look older, results in an altogether cold persona. She once imagined the way a crown would look nestled in his curls but now she aches for the days of his simple curls and her flower crown. It was a much lighter burden to carry.

"I can't ignore my child, Mary," he says, running a hand through his hair and sighing (she used to run her fingers through his hair).

"No, so you ignore your wife instead," she says sardonically. 

"I thought you'd be happy I was ignoring you. Less opportunities to lie to me," he shoots back quickly and with too much ease for Mary's liking. She recoils, clasping her hands and willing the tears not to spring. She’s not sure when the tossing of insults back and forth came so easily between them but now she struggles to remember a time in which he would tell her she looked beautiful, that she was a true queen, that he would always be by her side. 

"How diplomatic of you," she says coolly and stands from her throne. 

"I saw the Prince of Condé talking to you earlier," he says as she walks away from him. She nearly doesn't stop walking but she hears that familiar tone in his voice, the one that tries so hard to seem blasé but fails so badly. She doesn’t turn, just stands with her back to him so he can’t see the falter in her stony composure.

"I saw you talking with Lola earlier," she retorts. Two can play at that game. 

"You know nothing is happening between us," he says tiredly.

"Do I?" she asks as she finally turns, though she knows it's not fair to him. "It happened before didn't it?"

Francis’s eyes dart away from hers and she feels a sick sense of satisfaction of hitting a nerve (she wonders if he feels the same).

“Are you—“ he starts and she wishes desperately there wasn’t that tone of uncertainty in his voice. “Will you be sleeping in our rooms tonight?”

 _Oh_.

She didn’t expect him to ask that.

She shakes her head.

“Right,” he says, nodding and she knows that she isn’t imagining the hurt flashing in his eyes. “Of course. Why would you?”

“Don’t,” Mary says warningly.

“Don’t what?” he asks, his brow furrowed.

“Don’t act like we can try to be  the same couple we used to be,” she says.

“But couldn’t we try?” 

“And wouldn’t it be easier if I didn’t love you?” she snaps, ignoring his question and Francis opens his mouth to respond, though she cuts him off. “We’re not the children we used to be. We no longer have that privilege. We are _rulers._ We cannot let broken hearts get in the way of our decisions or logic. If we stay this way, we’ll only become bitter and jaded and resentful. I don’t want that for us, I don’t want any of this for us. So we have to stop. Stop letting us hurt each other over and over again.”

“Mary, that's the exact way we become bitter and jaded and resentful. We have to fight that. I am _not_ becoming my parents," he says determinedly. 

"Your parents cared about each other so much that it tore them apart. Jealousy and anger and resentment just festered over the years because they didn't do anything about it. This is me doing something about it."

"Mary, stop, you don't--"

“I have to. I don’t have a choice,” she interrupts.

“Yes, yes you do. Choose _us_. We can heal this, I _love_ you.”

“If only that was enough.” She finally breaks eye contact with her husband and sighs. “From now on, we are but allies, nothing more. You may spend your time with your family—“

“ _You_ are my family,” he interrupts, but Mary ignores him yet again and continues.

“—And we will rule together. But only rule. Spend your nights with Lola, or your child or your advisors, I don’t care anymore. I can’t care.”

“Mary, this is ridiculous,” he starts, stepping towards her. She responds by stepping away, the distance between them palpable.

“No,” she says. “This is what we need.” And she walks away.

 

* * *

 

It's dark with Prince Louis leaves his rooms, the castle quiet, the guards tired and lackluster. It's just what the Prince of Blood needs.

"You're late," the man says, leaning against the wall, the shadows cloaking him.

"I was busy."

"You don't have the privilege to be busy, de Bourbon," the man says and though Louis can't see him, his eyes are rolling. 

"Don't be so boring, Charles," Louis says, rolling his eyes as well.

"This is serious. If anyone knew--"

"I know, we'd lose our heads. You can't say it enough," Louis finishes tiredly, as if he's heard it a thousands times before. 

"I saw you talking with the queen today," the man--Charles--says, his voice full of judgements.

"People can have conversations without it meaning anything, Charles."

"Not with queens they can't," the other man sighs. "And especially not with you. Be careful, the king adores her, even if they aren't on good terms."

"You think we can use her?" asks Louis and Charles snorts.

"She's too heavily guarded and the boy won't take any chances with her. Yes, if we were to do anything, he'd rush to get her, but he's logical too. He'll bring more men than they need," Charles explains. "Just focus on the king for a while and forget about flirting with a married woman."

"Like I said, you're too boring."

"I have to be boring to plot something like this," Charles says before glancing around the dark corridor. "We'd better be going. The others will be waiting."


	2. Come Back When You Can

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one's a bit longer to make up for the shorter first chapter. hope you enjoy, this is where it gets more interesting....
> 
> (song is by barcelona)

 

Francis surprises her today, sweeping into the throne room and immediately making his way to the throne (to her) and settling beside her. 

"You're not with Lola," she says without looking at him. 

"No, Pauline didn't need me," he replies, putting the subtle emphasis on Pauline, to show her, to prove to her that he was there for Pauline and not for Lola. She hates him for it. She hates that he has to reaffirm he presence with his child and negate it with her best friend. She doesn't know if Lola was there, she never knows if Lola is there. She doesn't know if she hands Francis their baby when he walks in, or if she leaves the moment he enters, or if they stay together, cooing over their child. 

And she doesn't want to, she wants to distance herself from it as if putting the baby out of her mind will put it out if her life. It doesn't. She doesn't need to meet this baby to be aware of their existence. She is there in the days where Francis leaves council meetings early, the early days where he would return to their rooms when she was asleep. 

Their council meeting doesn't last long, there isn't much to talk about today. Besides, the advisors are always hesitant to talk of anything of importance when she, the foreign, nearly jilted queen, is there. Just what she needs. 

Francis coughs as Lord Hugo begins to roll up the maps and his guards step forward. He nods slightly to the other lords and marquis' and viscounts and leaves the room without a glance towards Mary. None of them look at her either, instead muttering softly as they exit the room. She feels the sudden urge to laugh, how everyone seems to ignore her, to give her a wide berth. It is like she is becoming Catherine, everyone afraid of what will set her off, her husband's baby, a rude council member, or her absent husband himself. 

The next time she sees Francis, he is sitting at his throne, talking with his mother. She watches as Catherine carefully contains her anger at her son but she knows them well enough that Francis is most certainly not in his mother’s good graces at the moment. It gives her a perverse sense of satisfaction. 

A feeling she should get used to when Louis, Prince of Condé, enters the room, his head held high in an obvious air of confidence. 

The idea comes so easily it scares her and within minutes, she finds herself in front of Louis, a bashful smile plastered on her face. 

"Your grace," he says, bowing while keeping his eyes glued to her. 

"I would like to apologize for the way I treated you earlier. I was neither polite nor welcoming. And I'm sorry for that."

The prince looks confused for a split second and she wonders if anyone has ever apologized to him like this. (She can use this can't she?)

"It's quite all right, your grace. I completely understand, what with all your commitments," he replies, the word commitments heavy with meaning. 

"Thank you so much for understanding," she says and placing her hand on his chest before she can second-guess herself. The prince raises an eyebrow, though he looks far from annoyed at the touch.

“No problem at all,” he says and she beams at him, taking her hand away.

“I hope to see you at the festivities tonight?” she asks, layering on the layer of expectation for his benefit.

“If I had any doubt before, it is now gone,” he replies. “I’ll expect to see you looking stunning as always.”

Mary smiles, blushing slightly as she nods to him and walks away. She adds a swing to her hips, something she took from Kenna long ago (something she used to use to tempt Francis away from a spar, or a meeting). She sneaks a look over her shoulder to see if Francis is even paying attention to her.

And he is more than paying attention to her.

His eyes are glued to her back, confusion, hurt and defiance all visible on his face. His mouth is set in a thin line, in anger or vulnerability, she doesn’t know. She resists the urge to smirk (let him know how it feels) and leaves the throne room, knowing his eyes followed her out.

She’s turning the corner, walking towards Greer’s rooms to talk to her friend, when footsteps sound behind her. They’re urgent and quick, a clear sense of anger behind them.

“What do you think you’re doing?” an oh so familiar voice snaps from behind her. Mary resists the urge to smile and turns, taking in the man behind her.

Francis is behind her, nearly seething in anger, his lips pressed together, his eyes dark and jaw set.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says sweetly, enjoying the fact that Francis is for once knowing what she feels like.

“You’re flirting with Louis. ‘I hope to see you at the festivities tonight?’” he mimics and Mary feels the anger rise deep inside her.

“At least I don’t have a baby with someone who I’m not married to,” she retorts quickly.

“For the last time, I do not feel _anything_ for Lola!” he says, throwing his hands in the air.

“Says the man that spends every waking moment with her when he’s not ignoring his wife!”

Francis runs a hand through his hair quickly, his nostrils even flaring in anger. There’s a split second where neither of them do anything and Mary can barely differentiate the moment where they were standing there yelling at each other and the moment where, within two long strides, is pressing her against the wall, his lips hard against hers.

She doesn’t even attempt to push him away, instead tugging at his hair as their lips move in a hurried frenzy. She’s barely even remembers the last time they kissed but she knows it was nothing like this one, all rushed with too much teeth and pent up emotions.

His hands are strong on her hips, holding her against the wall, not that she would want to be anywhere else but here. She wants nothing more than to be in their bedroom, his hands tracing fire up her skin as their clothes fall away, no longer needed. Her corset feels tight, caging her in as she only presses into him harder, eager for there to be no space between them.

She has no idea how long they stand there, taking each other in, but it feels like hours later when she finally puts two hands on his chest and pushes him away, hard.

He stumbles backwards, responding to her unspoken request with ease. Both of them are nearly gasping for air, their shoulders heaving and their hair disheveled. He looks nothing like the king he should and she looks nothing like the proud queen that walked away from him earlier.

She knows his anger is still pent up inside him, that that wasn’t enough to let it all out, but she also sees the plea in his eyes, for things to go back to normal, for all their kisses not to end the way they do. She can’t do that though, not with the baby, or a country to think about. She purses her lips, refusing to shed a tear and shakes her head slightly. Francis sags in dejection, understanding her without speaking a word.

“You had no right,” she snaps before tearing her eyes away from his and walking away.

He doesn’t follow her.

 

* * *

 

Her hand falters over the light silk hanging on her clothing curtain.

The dress is black, with gold embroidery on the torso. It barely covers her shoulders and ties at the front. It was made on their honeymoon for her and she’s only worn it once (she remembers Francis’s difficulty and impatience with getting it off and tries to ignore the pang in her heart. He told her he nearly regretted taking it off, that he loved they way it showed her neck but then it fell to the floor and he changed his mind.

“ _I like what’s underneath much better_ ,” he had said, his breath ghosting over the skin of her shoulder.)

But Louis will be there tonight and she knows Francis will be watching. However much she wishes to get a rise out of him, she is hesitent of using something that is so clearly _theirs’_ to do it. So instead, she calls Sophie, her maid, in and asks her to bring the light blue one instead, knowing how it accentuates her curves without meaning anything.

She asks Sophie to put the other dress deep in her closet.

 

* * *

 

Francis’s hand is heavy in hers as they enter the ballroom, ever the image of the happy couple. He’s been avoiding her eyes since he came to her room, his eyes drifting down her body, then back up to hers and blushing.

The kiss changed things.

He can’t look her in the eye anymore and she doesn’t know if it’s because he wants to do it again or if he’s angry at her yet again. She settles for the latter because that’s what it always seems to be

(She’s wrong).

The moment they enter, he is nearly swarmed by viscounts and lords and advisors and people who are only interested in him. Francis’s gaze lingers on her for a split second and she is hit by a sudden stab of longing to be close to him, to go back to the way they used to be with soft and subtle touches, a brief reminder that the other was there and hidden looks across the room when moments later they would excuse themselves and return to their rooms, giggling like they were children again.

And as it always does, the longing turns into resentment and anger as he barely even meets her eyes anymore. She remembers the anger flashing in his eyes when he saw Louis flirting with her and within seconds, she’s passing Francis without a second glance and making her way to Louis.

“Your grace,” he says, bowing to her and smiling. “You look exquisite.”

“Thank you,” she says, smiling at him widely. “You’re too kind.”

“And you’re too beautiful,” he volleys back.

“You should slow down, or my husband may worry,” she says, jest in her words though she very much so hopes that her husband will worry.

“I think it’s too late for that,” he says, raising his eyebrows and gesturing across the room. Mary turns, leaning into Louis subtly as she searches for Francis. He’s standing next to the Marquis de Rouen and the Viscount de Lorraine but his eyes are boring into hers. His gaze flickers away when he sees Louis and Mary looking at him, but she can see he is having trouble concentrating on the two men in front of him. She smirks and turns back to Louis.

"How are you enjoying French court?" she asks, though she has a feeling of what he will answer.

"Oh, I'm enjoying  _quite_ a lot," he says, grinning roguishly. "Everyone has been so welcoming."

"Good, I'm glad," Mary says, trying to sound relieved and thrilled at his reply. They lapse into silence, each watching the dancing before them. Mary makes a point of not looking at Francis, but she knows he's looking over to her every now and then. She knows that if she looks at him once, she won't be able to look away and she knows that if she doesn't look at him at all, it will only make him more pique his interest more.

"Your grace, may I be frank?" he asks, as if he need permission, as if he hasn't been already. 

"But of course."

"It would do me a great honor to have the next dance with you," he says. Mary purses her lips, pretending to hold back a smile.

"I would--" she starts, but stops herself, frowning. She continues quietly, more disappointed than excited, "I would love to. Only I'm not sure it would be proper."

"Ah, Francis would not approve?"

"Not just Francis. I am a queen and it would not do well for my reputation to dance with a man that is not my husband," she says. She doesn't know why exactly she is leading Louis on, but she does know that the only thing that's keeping her sane is the way Francis is looking at her. 

 

* * *

 

“You know, I’ve been thinking about this plan of yours,” Francis says as he walks up to her. She is suddenly hyperaware of the way he’s standing close to her, like he’s purposely trying to make her heart race. “And it sounds an awful lot like something I tried not so long ago.

“And look how that turned out,” he says and steps ever so slightly closer to her. Mary swallows hard and forces herself to meet his eyes.

“If we’re going to talk about this, can we at least do it in private?” she asks, glancing around the crowded room. She sees the aura of surprise—he didn’t expect her to listen, never mind talk to him alone. He nods and Mary begins walking, she doesn’t know where. They finally reach one of the lower hallways, it’s dark and empty and perfect for this conversation.

“That was different, you weren’t king and we weren’t even married!” she says, turning around quickly the minute they stop walking.

“It doesn’t matter. Distancing ourselves from each other doesn’t work! Too many people’s broken hearts are at risk. Mary, I tried not to fall in love with you. And I failed at that. So I tried to let you go to Tomas to save your country. And then I tried to stop myself from loving you and I sought comfort in Olivia. But that didn’t work, we only ended up in my bed. And then you went off with Bash, but I came back. And I went to war, and I came back. I went to Lola and I came back. Mary, I will always come back to you. So many things have come between us and none of them have worked.”

“But we aren’t happy. Yes, you came back all those times but look at us now!”

“And it’s because we aren’t talking! Because every conversation we have ends in a screaming match and every night we sleep in empty beds,” he snaps.

“I’m sorry, I just can’t do this anymore, Francis! It hurts now, but later? When we’re older and we don’t—“ she stops herself, willing herself not to cry or show weakness.

“What?” he asks coldly. “When we don’t love each other anymore? When are you going to understand? I will love you until my dying breath.”

“But it isn’t enough,” she says. Francis sighs, his shoulders sinking. She knows that look, the look of dejection, of giving up. And she knows she should feel relief, but she doesn’t. She just feels empty and hollow. Her eyes search his for anything but anger and grief and when she doesn’t find anything, she turns away, using every ounce of willpower she can muster.

She knows he’s not following her from the silence behind her (but he isn’t walking away either). She makes it to the turn in the hallway, the moment right before he will lose sight of her, when someone grabs her arm, light and intentional.

She didn’t hear him come up behind her and she doesn’t know when he decided to follow her but within seconds, she’s spun around by a very determined blond king.

He doesn’t kiss her, though she knows he wants to, she can see that look in his eyes. He’s holding everything back and she’s grateful for it, though his face is inches from hers and all she would have to do is angle her head—

She stops herself mid-thought, not allowing herself to go further, to imagine anything else.

“It is enough,” he says softly, his voice insistent. “You’re enough.”

Mary opens her mouth to reply, but something stops her and it isn’t her maid who chose that moment to happen upon them.

“Oh, I’m so sor—Your grace!” A voice springs them apart. Sophie is standing several feet away from them, her face bright red as she avoids the couple’s eyes. Sophie of course didn’t catch them doing anything, but it’s very clear she happened upon _something_.

“I was sent to come looking for you. The queen mother wishes to speak with you,” Sophie says, her head bowed.

“Yes, of course. She is in the ballroom?” Sophie nods as Mary plasters a smile on her face. “I’ll go right now.”

“Begging your pardon, your grace, but she wishes to speak with the king as well,” Sophie adds quietly.

“Of course she does,” Mary mutters. “Thank you, Sophie.”

Sophie curtsies quickly and practically runs down the hallway, as far away she can get from the king and queen. Mary follows her, ignoring Francis’s outstretched hand.

“Mary—“ he starts.

She stops and looks over her shoulder. Francis is standing behind her, leaning forward ever so slightly, like he could just barely reach her.

“This doesn’t change anything,” she says softly and continues to walk away from him.

 

* * *

 

“We have a situation,” Catherine says as they enter Francis’s study. Mary bites back the retort on the tip of her tongue and only sighs, looking at her mother-in-law expectantly. “We can’t trust anyone in this court.”

This time Mary doesn’t restrain herself; “And we didn’t know this already?”

Catherine ignores Mary, continuing, “We have an insider. There are people who…dislike those in power. People who dislike Catholics. People who dislike us.”

“This isn’t new,” Francis says.

“Yes, but French court has always been full of Catholics. The Protestants scurry into their little corners because they know that they will have us to answer to. But now with your father dead, they’re taking their chances, testing the waters. They want to see what kind of king you’ll be, one that accepts the Protestants, or one that despises them.”

“Do we know what they’re planning?” Francis asks, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“Not yet, but we know the general people involved,” Catherine replies. “Charles de Castelnau and Louis de Bourbon are chief among them.”

“Louis de Bourbon?” Francis repeats, turning to Mary with a self-satisfied smirk on his face.

“Yes,” Catherine says slowly, looking between them as the gears in her brain turn, putting a plan together already. “Anything you two would like to tell me?”

“Not that I can think of,” Mary replies, her eyes trained on Francis’s.

“If you have any information or leverage we can use, you have the obligation of telling me,” Catherine says. Mary doesn’t need to speak to Francis to know what him thinking.

“Louis has an interest in Mary,” Francis says after a long pause.

“An interest?” asks Catherine, her eyebrow cocked. “Now, _this_ we can use.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *godefroy de barry (of the perigord) was a real person and he was in fact involved in the amboise conspiracy this story is based on. charles, the man in the last chapter, was as well, but his last name has not been mentioned for a reason. i'm trying to keep this story historically accurate but i'm bound to change things/ignore events and people etc. reign isn't historically accurate itself, which makes me feel a bit better about it.
> 
> **the dress mary wears to the party is the one she wears in 1x14, the day they come back from their honeymoon. i absolutely adore that dress and i have a feeling francis has a love-hate relationship with it because a: um boobs much? and b: it looks hard to get off. the light blue dress is not the one she wore at the end of 1x02 or in 1x06 however. just want to clarify that.


	3. Not About Angels

“Absolutely not!” snaps Francis adamantly, glaring at the two of them. Mary watches as he yells at his mother for even suggesting such a thing, how could she even _think_ of putting Mary in that kind of danger, she could be _killed_ , _beheaded, tortured_ , this plan is madness.

What the plan is is simple, but highly dangerous—well, Mary and Catherine think so, Francis is wary. But a husband must be wary when his wife is about to embark on seducing secrets out of a man who goes by the Prince of Blood.

“I don’t like this,” Francis says, leaning on his mother’s desk. Catherine is seated at it, her palms pressed together over her lips, almost prayer-like. Mary is standing across the room, pacing as they discuss the first stage of the plan. She doesn't dare risk looking at Francis, for it seems that whenever she does so lately, she can't tear her eyes away.

“You don’t have to,” Mary replies.

“He’s dangerous,” Francis adds.

“Which is exactly why I need to do this.”

“I still don’t like it,” he repeats and Mary feels something in her soften at his tone and she turns finally. He's no longer leaning on his mother's desk, instead standing against it in what would seem like a relaxed position. But Mary knows him better than that. His brows are ever so slightly furrowed in thought and worry. Every now and then she sees him bite the inside of his cheek absentmindedly, his nervous habit. His eyes are flickering around the room without focusing on anything and she knows that he isn't seeing, not properly. Just thinking. 

“I know,” she says quietly, walking over to him and putting her hand on his chest. His eyes stop darting around the room and meet hers. She's startled by the vulnerability she finds there. They’ve barely touched in the past week and it feels like a breath of fresh air to be so close to him. He looks down at her, half hopeful, half guarded and she savors in the feel of his beating heart.

It was her idea and yet she’s standing here, looking up at him and wishing she didn’t long for him as much as she does in that moment, wishing that every fiber of her being wasn't pulling towards him in a irresistible gravitational tug, wishing he wouldn't look at her the way he was, wishing she actually didn't want him to look at at her the way he was.

Francis takes her hand in his and for a moment she thinks he’s going to hold it to him, but instead his hand falls, releasing hers. Her hand swings to her side, feeling cold and unnatural. He bites his lips and steps away, taking a deep breath and tearing his eyes away from her. She is surprised no one can hear her heart shattering, the cold pieces scattering themselves through her body, the pain ever present though the months long passed have dulled it.

“How do we make sure he doesn’t figure out what we’re doing?” Francis asks, turning to his mother. Mary releases a breath she didn’t know she was holding but the room still seems airless, confined. Trapped in.

“It shouldn’t be too hard, we just have to make Mary as unassuming as possible. Make her into the last person that would ever plot like this. Give her a broken heart, something he can fool himself into mending. Make him think she’s easy prey, someone he can manipulate without knowing he’s the one being manipulated,” Catherine muses. “Toss him the young girl lost in French court, humiliated by her husband, someone she once loved. Make her insecure, make her longing for love, make him think that he can fix all that. And then we have to be careful, of course. Finding the information is the hard part because the girl I just described won’t be interested in politics or matters of state. Make him think that he’s telling her because he wants to, not that she wants him to. She can’t ask too much, she need only entice him and trap him.

“Besides,” Catherine adds, “She’s a queen. They wouldn’t go to the trouble of killing her. It wouldn’t do much for them. She’s from Scotland, truly. They need the king of France, not his consort.”

Mary’s gaze unavoidably flickers to Francis, who is standing there, stony faced with his arms crossed. He shrugs.

“I’ll never be able dissuade either of you,” he says without emotion. “So why try?”

They barely notice when Catherine leaves the room, saying something about the two of them talking.

“I know you want me to stay away, but Mary, you can’t honestly think this is a good idea. If he even catches a whiff of our plans, he could hurt you without a second thought. I can’t let you do this,” he says the minute his mother is out of earshot. She thinks a part of her knows why he told his mother that he gave up on dissuading them and she thinks a part of Catherine knows this too. 

“If I don’t, _you’re_ in danger. I know I can’t do much to protect you from everything, heaven knows I’ve tried, but this is something I can do. I have to.” Her voice is quiet but he can hear her across the room as if they were inches apart. She watches as his jaw clenches and unclenches in thought.

“I can’t ask you to protect me,” he says, stepping towards her and taking her hands in his. “I can’t ask you to put my safety above your own. There are other people who are meant to do that.”

“I know you can’t ask me and I know that you won’t. But I will anyways,” she says. “I _must_.”

“God, _Mary_ ,” he says and closes the space between them. Mary is suddenly thrust back to a year ago, when they stood in his rooms, saying goodbye for what they thought could be the last time. She remembers the way he looked as he watched her leave the room, wondering if he would ever see her again. She remembers drinking in his features, committing them to memory and preparing for a possible life without him. The kiss feels almost the same exact way, pouring each other’s devotion and promises and love into each other, telling the other something words could not express.

When she finally pulls herself away from him, she wipes her tears away before he can see them and straightens herself to her full height.

“We’re not very good at keeping our distance, are we?” she asks, laughing softly.

“And yet we keep trying,” he says, cupping her cheek with his hand.

Mary breaks their eye contact and takes Francis’s hand away from her cheek as she steps away.

Francis sighs and takes a step back as well, as if he’s falling back into the present (which they both are). 

“Right,” he says, “I forgot.”

“Francis—“ Mary starts, her voice laden with emotion.

“It’s all right,” he interrupts, “I just forgot we weren’t who we used to be.”

He smiles weakly at her before walking away, leaving Mary slightly lost and very conflicted.

If she listens to every single force pulling her to him, she risks breaking her heart all over again. The memory of watching Francis ride away from her, choosing his child over her and his country, is still seared into her mind. She feels that she is split in two, one part trying to be the resilient queen and the other wishing for someone to be by her side. She finds herself becoming furious at Francis for leaving, then suddenly missing him with all her heart. The pull she feels towards him doesn’t help as she finds herself irreparably linked to him, though she fights it every moment she finds herself close to him.

Just being near Francis wipes her mind clean of any doubts she has. He completely robs her of all sense and logic. It takes all of her to pull away from him but there’s always a voice in the back of her mind, reminding her of all the heartbreak. Olivia, Lola, preventing her from going to Scotland, going to Calais and not to her mother and leaving her for his child. There is only so much time she can spend without those at the forefront of her mind and when they come rushing back, she has to tell herself that this is best, this is what they both need and that they will be happier in the end.

And with memories like these and the kiss in the hallway, she’s more torn apart than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is purposely pushing mary and francis around. i'm not sure how many of you read these notes but i would if i were you because i want to make sure you get my motivations for this chapters because you might be annoyed with the characters with my by the end of it. mary is extremely conflicted right now (which is what i get across (hopefully) in the last three paragraphs). francis is slightly conflicted, but less so. his heart hasn't been broken as much as mary's because he hasn't had to watch her have a family with someone else. he doesn't understand why she won't open herself back up to him which is quite annoying. of course, he's still angry about the lies and locking her out but he's more willing to work through their problems. 
> 
> keep in mind that other than running their countries and picking up the pieces after the plague, mary's maine concern is trying not to get hurt again. she isn't the same person she used to be and right now, a lot of what francis has been doing is causing her pain. take francis out of the equation, take the pain out too. it's a bit twisted because we know how much they love each other but /mary/ doesn't know that. a part of her still worries about a rekindling of the "romance" (if you can call it that) of francis and lola. she is being pulled by the remains of her love for francis and the memories of all the times he hurt her. remember she doesn't know all that we do. she has to rely completely on francis's word, which as of late, hasn't exactly been worth much.
> 
> i just want to remind you that she is incredibly conflicted and isn't sure what she wants. she's doing all she can. remember she's technically a teenager with a country on her shoulders. that responsibility is starting to weigh on her and we'll see how she handles it as the story continues.


	4. Say Something

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a francis-centric chapter, those will pop up every now and then just so you can see what he's feeling and thinking through this. enjoy!

“Your grace!” the wet nurse, Jeanne, says as Francis enters Pauline’s nursery. “We didn’t expect you today.”

Jeanne lifts Pauline from her crib and walks over to Francis. He puts out his hands for his daughter and smiles softly at her sleeping form.

“The Lady Lola isn’t here right now,” she says and Francis stiffens.

“That’s quite all right,” he says, knowing that it’s more than just all right. While Lola repeatedly assures both him and Mary she doesn’t want to become like Diane de Poitiers, she pushes at conversation each time Francis comes to visit their daughter. He loves Pauline to no end, but Lola is just a reminder of what Pauline isn’t—Not Mary’s, not legitimate and, though he tries not to think, not right. The guilty pit in his stomach grows after he thinks this each time. Sometimes he looks down into Pauline’s grey eyes and pretends that they’re more blue than grey and her brown hair is more Mary’s than Lola. He closes his eyes for a moment and imagines their life.

They would escape from council meetings together, rushing to their daughter’s rooms. They might even race to the crib to see who got to hold her first. Francis would scoop her up and throw her in the air and Mary would protest half-heartedly, saying she was only a newborn, but she would hide her smile and secretly love they way their daughter’s eyes lit up when she returned to her father’s arms. And maybe as she got older, they would fight over her first words, whether it be maman, or papa. But she wouldn’t say either, maybe her own version of Bash, or Kenna. She could say anything and they would be happy because she was theirs.

“I didn’t know you were coming today,” a voice startles him out of his dreams. Lola is standing in the door awkwardly and Francis is dragged back to his reality, albeit reluctantly.

“I wasn’t planning on it, but I had some free time,” Francis says, though it’s not exactly the truth. He canceled a meeting with Lord Hugo, but it wasn’t for Lola or Pauline. It was for Mary (it’s always for Mary). But when he arrived at her rooms to ask to talk, to go on a walk, to just be together, she only looked at him in the same way she has been—full of indecision, pain and most importantly, refusal.

“Good, I’m glad,” Lola says, smiling widely. Francis tries to return it but instead, he just looks back down at Pauline, hoping she takes the hint. She doesn’t. “How are you?”

“Fine,” he replies shortly, bobbing Pauline up and down without looking at her.

“Good,” she says expectantly, like she wants him to at least return the favor. When he doesn’t, she scoffs. “You could at least try.”

He looks back up at her, surprised.

“We have a daughter, you could at least be civil,” Lola adds

“A daughter you kept from me. A daughter you made my wife swear to keep from me,” he says, keeping his voice low for Pauline.

“Jeanne,” Lola calls, turning around. Jeanne comes back into the room.

“Yes, milady?”

“Could you take Pauline? His grace and I need to talk,” she says. Jeanne nods and takes their baby from Francis’s arms, bowing slightly as she leaves.

“How long have you been keeping that one in?” she asks, turning to him.

“Ever since I found out you were pregnant,” he replies honestly. “How could you keep that from me? We agreed there would be nothing between us after that night, but that doesn’t mean you lie to my face for months on end about our child.”

“I thought if I just found a husband fast enough, you would never have to know. I would never come between you and Mary and this would never be a problem!”

“Oh, no,” Francis scoffs, “You didn’t come between Mary and I. Pauline and I did.”

“Blaming our daughter for your marriage then?” she snaps and he can tell her anger is rising fast.

“No, I’m blaming myself for my marriage troubles,” he corrects and Lola flinches, surprised at his retort.

“Look, I know I’m not Mary, and Pauline and I will never come close to the family you wish for yourself and her,” she says, her anger melting away. “I never want to come between you two like I have again. Promise me you’ll at least try, even though you don’t owe me anything. Because you owe it to Mary.”

“Don’t you think I am trying? She barely talks to me anymore.”

“So talk to her. _Fight for her_. Has it ever occured to you that the reason Mary is distancing herself from you is because you're not telling her what she needs to hear? That you love her. What you and Mary have is what people write history books about. I don’t change that, and neither does Pauline. Our one night of comfort doesn’t change that, Bash doesn’t change that, France or Scotland don’t change that.”

“It’s not that simple, Lola.”

“Maybe you’re just making it not that simple,” she says, shrugging.

“Who would have thought you of all people would be giving me romantic advice?” Francis says, chuckling softly after a pause.

“Who would have thought that we would have a child together?”

Francis smiles without much humor and nods to her before he leaves the room.

* * *

Mary standing in a corner with Greer and Kenna, her head thrown back in laughter. The late afternoon sunlight hits her hair, giving it an auburn sheen. It falls in loose sheets down her back, bouncing as she shakes her head. Her laugh is a relief to his ears, knowing she is happy is a relief. Her brown eyes dance as she says something to Greer, who blushes quickly. She looks like the girl that giggled beneath him as he pressed his lips to her stomach, wishing she was pregnant. 

He is so engrossed in watching Mary, he doesn’t notice when Louis approaches him.

“Your wife has a way of charming the room, does she not?” the man says, standing next to him and joining him in watching Mary. Francis pivots, his gaze hardening. Louis notices Francis’s anger and shifts. “Apologies. I meant no offence.”

“No,” Francis says, “Of course you didn’t.”

“You know the way men look at her, do you not?”

“I’m not naïve,” he says in response.

“No,” Louis says, “Of course you’re not. You’re a king, albeit a young one.”

“And Mary is a queen. And she is married to me. You’d do best to not speak of her in that manner to me,” he says coldly.

“Yes, you are married,” Louis says, but there’s something more behind his words. Francis pauses for a second, wondering how he should play this with the plan in mind.

“Though there isn’t anything either of us can do about that,” he mutters just quiet enough so that it seems as though he doesn’t want Louis to hear, but just loud enough for him to take note of it.”

Louis doesn’t say anything but Francis can see the small twitch of his lips. He resists the urge to grit his teeth, the plan still not boding well with him. The two men stand in silence, Francis wanting nothing more than to wipe the leer off Louis’s smug face and Louis wanting nothing more than for Francis to be out of the picture, in more ways than one.

Mary finally makes her way over to the two of them, nodding at Louis and smiling softly. Francis pretends not to notice.

“Prince Louis,” she says.

“Your grace,” he says as he bows. “I trust you are well?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Shall we depart?” Francis asks stiffly and Mary turns to him, nodding, disappointment in her eyes. He offers his arm, trying his best to make the action look as awkward as possible. Mary loops her arm through his and they walk out of the room together.

“Look back at him,” Francis whispers so only she can hear. She looks up at him, her eyes questioning. “Look back at him and smile.”

Mary looks him in the eye for a split second and they both slow, the space between them electric. She sighs and turns her head, looking at Louis though lidded eyes. Francis doesn’t turn and pretends not to notice. They turn the corner and Mary faces forward once more.

They’re out of sight and Mary slips her arm from his.

“Well, I think that went well,” she says as they walk back to their rooms. “I think you should be seen sneaking back into your rooms tonight. We can make sure a servant spreads the word.”

“Mary—“

“Maybe we can pretend to keep up appearances but find ways for people to know we’re distant,” she continues, ignoring him.

“Mary, just stop—“

“It will seem more realistic that way, I think. Of course, we’ll have to be subtle, make it noticeable but not obvious.”

“God, can you just _say_ something?” he snaps and ceases to walk. Mary stops as well and turns to him.

“Francis, I _am_ saying something,” she says, tiredly.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it.”

Mary’s eyes dart away from his, her fingers knotting and unknotting.

“I think I’ll have Sophie spread the rumor,” she says after a long pause. “We can trust her.”

Francis nods, pursing his lips and sighing before walking down the hallway stiffly. He hears Mary follow him, but the don’t speak a word until they reach her rooms and she bids him goodnight, walking over to her vanity and beginning to brush her hair. He returns her words softly, stopping in the door and watching her brush her hair, her face emotionless.

He has been sleeping alone in his own bed for a month now but tonight the bed feels colder and emptier.

His head rests on the pillow and he closes his eyes but he doesn’t sleep.


	5. Flowers in her Hair

Kenna grins widely when Mary comes out from behind her changing screen and twirls.

“What do you think?” Mary asks, returning the smile.

“I think Francis won’t be able to keep his hands off of you,” Kenna replies, taking in the dress. It’s a dark grey, almost charcoal with gold stitching at the ends of the arms, the bodice and the hem. The sleeves are long, but they barely cover her shoulders, the corset keeping the dress up and pushing up her breasts. Her hair is simply brushed, a simple gold circlet resting in her curls.

Mary smiles and wishes that the dress was meant for Francis only.

“So,” Mary says, brushing a lock of hair out of her eyes, “How’s Bash?”

“He’s well. We both are,” her friend says smiling. “He isn’t going around with that damn hero complex, so that’s an improvement.”

“I’m so happy for you, Kenna,” Mary says truthfully, taking her friend’s hands in hers.

“Thank you,” Kenna says, but her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “But you’re not happy.”

“Kenna—“ Mary starts.

“No, you’re not happy. And you won’t be, not without Francis. Mary, I love you to death, but distancing yourself from Francis isn’t going to do anything for you or for him.”

“I’m not—“

“Yes, yes you are,” Kenna interrupts. “I know what you and Francis look like when you’re happy and I know what you look like when you’re not. And right now, you are most definitely the latter. I don’t know what it is about you and Francis, but you have this God-awful pattern of self-destruction. Whether it be Bash, or your countries, or Lola, who doesn’t even _want_ to come between you two. The last thing anyone wants is for you to be as unhappy as you are right now, except maybe you two.”

“Kenna—“

“And don’t say it isn’t that simple because you’re just making it that way. You’re making it complicated by roping that prince into this,” and when Mary opens her mouth to protest, Kenna barrels on, not giving her space to interrupt. “Don’t even try to deny it, I see the way Francis watches you and I see the way you watch him when you think no one is looking. One minute you’re self-satisfied, the next you’re stony cold and the next you’re leaving the room so no one can see the cracks in your façade. You can’t pretend not to want him, Mary. So stop.”

They stand together in silence for several beats, Kenna waiting to launch on another tirade.

“I know,” Mary says.

“God, Mary, sometim—Wait, what?” Kenna says, nearly going off again before she realizes what her friend actually said.

“I just—“ she says, “I can’t get hurt again. I’m a queen, my heart isn’t as important as my head. I need to focus on my country. I used to think that Francis and I could balance it. But we can’t, not when we keep breaking each other. But at the same time, pushing him away _is_ breaking me. It hurts to not be with him, it hurts more than I thought. Sometimes I just look at him and want to run back and forgive him and ask him to forgive me. But then I see him leaving meetings to see Pauline and Lola and I just remember that if I could just take myself away from all that, it wouldn’t hurt as much. I don’t know what to do and I hate it. I hate feeling lost and confused. This is my way of control. This is my way of setting things right. Or at least trying to.”

“Look my in the eye and tell me you think you can find happiness without Francis,” Kenna says when Mary finishes. When Mary doesn’t respond, Kenna shrugs. “Look, letting Francis back in might not be as bad as you think. He loves you more than anything, anyone can see that. What makes you think that you can’t try? What makes you think you’re destined for heartbreak this way? Because I think, if you keep pushing Francis away, you’re ensuring heartbreak. If you let him in, you might get your only chance of happiness back. Pushing him away is certain heartbreak. Getting him back isn’t. It's your choice.”

Kenna shrugs before nodding her head to her queen and turning away, walking towards the door.

“Oh and Mary?” Kenna says in the doorway, looking back. “Go see Lola. She misses you.”

And then she’s gone.

* * *

Mary's hand hovers over the doorknob, hesitating before she enters, not sure if she's ready to brave what is inside. 

It turns out she doesn't have to, because the door opens from the inside and Mary stands awkwardly in the doorway, Jeanne staring at her, shocked to find her queen standing there. 

"Milady?" Jeanne calls into the room but not taking her eyes off Mary's. "Her Grace, the Queen of Scots, is here to see you."

Mary smiles appreciatively at Jeanne and enters the room, not quite sure to expect. The empty room next to Lola's was converted to a small nursery for her daughter. There's a door that connects to her room for fast access in the late hours when Pauline wakes. There is a large cradle against one wall, a window above it. There's a chest at the foot of it, open, with blocks and toy soldiers stacked inside. A couch is placed in the corner, large enough for someone to lie in for a nap. A warm carpet covers the floor and a rocking chair is placed atop it in another corner, a towel draped over the arm and several pillows resting atop it. It's warm and cozy and everything Mary wants. 

Her eyes finally rest on Lola, who is sitting on the comfortable window seat, Pauline in her arms. Her hair is up in a messy bun, her dress wrinkled. She looks exhausted and it gives a Mary a sick sense of satisfaction that she quickly banishes. 

"I was wondering when you would visit," Lola says carefully, like she's testing the ground.

"Yes well I've been a bit busy," Mary snaps before she can stop herself. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. "I'm sorry, that was cruel."

Lola doesn't respond, only shifting slightly and adjusting Pauline's blanket. Mary can see a tuft of brown hair and she is relieved that her husband's daughter didn't take after him too much. She stomach quickly plunges though when she imagines his blue eyes looking up at her and she isn't sure if she wants to make sure that Pauline doesn't have them or if she's too afraid to see if she does. 

Thankfully, she doesn't have to make a decision between the two when she sees that Pauline is asleep. Her cheeks are chubby, like all babies', and her eyelids flutter as she sleeps, completely unaware of the effect she has on the people around her. 

Mary just stands there, staring at her husband's child and her friend, her throat feeling as though it is about to close. She's gotten quite good at not showing emotions these past few weeks so she knows Lola will not notice the inner turmoil. It's not like Lola ever noticed much about her anyways. 

And she knows that the pit in her stomach isn't really jealousy at its heart. No, it's a longing, a piercing longing for something she may never have.

She finally breaks the silence to escape her thoughts, stepping towards Lola and Pauline. 

"She's beautiful," she says softly. 

"She is, isn't she?" Lola says, her voice full of awe as she looks down at her child. Mary takes a small step back, suddenly full of resentment and anger and wistfulness. She can't stand here any longer, with Lola doting on a daughter that should be Mary's. Lola finally looks up and sees that Mary is quite a bit farther away now. 

"Mary?" she asks, confused. 

"I'm sorry, Lola," she says, her voice hard. "I have to go, I have a meeting with some advisors."

She doesn't really and she suspects Lola knows this but she can't stay in this warm nursery with a baby that is her husband's but not hers and a girl that was supposed to be her friend. Lola opens her mouth to protest but Mary has already made it to the door and she's so close to leaving this room full of regrets and mistakes. 

That is, until Lola stops her. 

"Stop pushing him away," her friend says suddenly and Mary pauses, her hand over the knob. 

"Excuse me?" she asks, turning towards Lola. 

"I know what you're trying to do. You think that if you push Francis away, you'll save yourself some heartbreak." When Mary opens her mouth to protest, Lola adds, "And don't try to deny it. He tried the same thing when you kissed Bash. And it ended with you choosing him anyways."

"Francis and I were always going to get married, whether either of us wanted it," Mary says dryly. 

"But you did want it, you both wanted it and I know you still do," Lola says and the tone in her voice says clearly that she doesn't want to be interrupted. "I also know you think that pushing him away is your best option. It's the only thing you can think of doing to make everything better. But it won't, it will do the opposite. If Francis ever gives up on you, which he won't, then he'll resent Pauline and eventually, you. You will be miserable and alone, without him to comfort you. Both your hearts will be broken and it will be your fault. But if you stop being so obstinate and at least try to mend things with Francis, then you can run your countries happily and together."

"I don't need Francis to be happy."

"No, you don't. But you need him to avoid unhappiness," Lola says. "And trust me, those are two different things. And as someone who has lost someone they loved, I advise you keep those you love close. You never know when you might lose them." 

Silence settles into the room as Lola finishes speaking, looking at her friend to see any sort of a clue into what she is feeling. 

Mary finally sighs and says, "I'm a queen, Lola. And Francis is a king. It isn't that simple."

"Or maybe you're just making it that way," Lola says softly. "The fact is, sleeping with Francis was the worst decision of my life and I think about that every day. I am so grateful for Pauline and I love her more than I think I've ever loved anyone. But if I could take back that night, I would. Pauline would be Julian's instead, you would be happy and Francis wouldn't feel this sense of duty for Pauline."

"He loves her," Mary weakly protests. 

"But not nearly as much as he would love your child," Lola says. 

"That is ridiculous," Mary says, mostly just to console her friend. 

"So is pushing away Francis, but that isn't stopping you."

"I wouldn't expect you to understand this, so I'm not surprised or even angry," Mary says, though she can feel the anger building. "Francis and I don't have the privilege of following our hearts and we were only fooling ourselves when we thought we did. How much I love Francis doesn't matter, there are more important things at stake. Letting each other break the other's heart only results in lapses in judgement, ones that we cannot afford. We don't have the luxury of giving our hearts precedence."

Mary doesn't give Lola a chance to respond to that, just nodding to her friend and leaving the room. 

The air outside feels cleaner, lighter. She breathes a sigh of relief now that she has done as Kenna advised and hopes desperately that it will be the last time (she knows it won't be). Her mind is swimming with imagined images of Francis holding Pauline, of Lola doting on her, of Francis beaming as he takes his daughter, of Francis pulling away from her and towards Lola. Of losing him completely. The images taunt her, refusing to go away as she tries to combat them. Her fears are beginning to take over and she can't imagine any of this ending up with a happily ever after for her.

Happily ever afters don't belong in history books. 

And as she realizes this, her mind much farther away than French court, she turns a corner. And as she turns a corner, the last person she wants to see right now turns the same corner. 

"Mary!" the distinctly masculine and familiar voice exclaims as they ram into each other head on. 

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Mary says, looking up, her mind much more present now as she looks up into a pair of startled eyes. "My mind was elsewhere."

"It's quite all right, I find myself in similar situations often," Prince Louis says, smiling down at her. She hadn't noticed until now, but his hands must have went out to her arms to stabilize her and he hasn't taken them away. There's a pause where they just keep eye contact before Louis takes away his hands. Mary pretends to be fazed. 

"Are you all right?" he asks, looking at her carefully. 

"Yes, I'm fine. Do I look that atrocious?" she asks, laughing. 

"No, you just look a little lost," he says softly, quick to comfort her. Mary smiles and ducks her head. 

"My mind is at a million places at the moment," she admits. 

"Care unload some of those thoughts?" he asks. "I'm happy to lend an ear."

"I shouldn't..." Mary says warily. "I don't want to bore you."

"Nonsense, you could never bore me," he says, his tone encouraging. Mary bites her lip, pretending to think about it. "Perhaps it has something to do with the fact that you just came from the Lady Lola's rooms?"

"Really, I shouldn't..." Mary says, knowing he will continue to push. 

"Sometimes it can help to talk through things with someone that isn't involved."

"It's just that I feel so _useless_ while he parades around with his daughter," Mary rushes out, as if she can't control it. "She's just a reminder of what I've failed at. And I know it has to be me now, since he has no problems conceiving. And of course it had to be my friend, my trusted lady. I thought I could trust both of them, really I did. But I was wrong, all they seem to do is hurt me time and time again. You know, he use to try with me. He would try to be a good husband and a prince and we would actually talk. But now he's always in meetings and if he isn't in a meeting, he is with Lola and their baby. It always seems like he chooses everything over me. I'm not first in his heart anymore and it pains me so.

"And I think I deserve to be. I think I deserve someone to put me firsts everyone does. It's the idea that you are important to someone, you matter to them. But I don't feel like I do to Francis anymore."

She pauses and sighs, before adding a quick, "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have said all that," with her eyes wide. 

"Mary, I cannot express how sorry I am for you. You of all people do not deserve that sort of treatment. And frankly, it baffles me. I can't imagine anyone not putting you first. Why would he look elsewhere when he has a woman like you?"

Mary opens her mouth to respond, but pauses, the memory of wine flowing freely through her veins and Bash's words pushed to the forefront of her mind. It's all starting to feel too real, these things she's saying to Louis but it's working. His eyes are soft and he looks at her with sadness and pity. She isn't a threat to him. 

"Mary?"

"I'm sorry, I was just lost in my thoughts again," she says quickly, deciding to distance herself from all of this, just act, take her own feelings out of the equation. "You know, there was a time where all we had to worry about was if we were going to get married or not. I now feel those days like something sharp in my heart. I can see the way we used to be so clearly, just a boy and a girl. But we never had hope for that. We would never get to be those people.

“Oh! I’ve done it again. Gone and blabbed about my problems to you. I’m sorry,” she says quickly, carefully watching him.

“It’s quite all right, Your Grace.”

“No, it really isn’t. I shouldn’t have said all that,” she says.

“Really, it’s fine. I don’t mind,” he says softly, putting his hand on her arm. Mary tries hard not to stiffen at his touch and instead beams at him.

“Thank you,” she breathes gratefully. “Well, I should be going. Thank you so much for understanding.”

“Of course.”

Mary smiles at him once more before beginning to walk away, feeling proud and successful.

“Oh and Mary?” he calls after her. “If you ever want to talk, I’m here.”

Mary makes her face light up and she nods.

“I might have to take you up on that,” she replies and walks away, swinging her hips just so. She knows Louis’s eyes are on her until she turns a corner and allows herself a small smile.

That is, until she quite literally runs into Francis. His face is stony, his normally blue eyes grey. He’s in shock but she's sure that it has something to do with the fact that she ran into him.

He overheard everything.

“Francis, let me—“ she starts.

“Parading around with my daughter? Not trusting me?” he says, his voice faltering, so slight she barely notices it. But she does.

“I didn’t mean it,” she starts. “It was only for his bene—“

“Is that how you feel?” he asks, more softly this time.

“No, no, I only said that for him,” she says quickly. Francis smiles without humor.

“Oh Mary, you could never lie to me,” he says. “How can I begin to apologize?”

“I—“ she starts. “What?”

“I never meant to parade Pauline around or betray your trust. I just felt so lost when I found out what you kept from me. I wasn’t sure how to react. All I knew is that I had to be there for my daughter. I know that I wasn’t easy on you and I know hurt you, but I never _wanted_ to. I just feel—“

“Lost?” Mary finishes. He nods. Something that feels a lot like relief floods her as she looks up at her husband. She opens her mouth to say something but is interrupted by the sound of heels behind her. She turns to see Catherine walking towards them, her hands clasped together and a smile on her face.

“My rooms. Now” she says without stopping and they follow her to her rooms.

“Well done, Mary,” Catherine says. “I overheard your conversation with Condé and you were perfect. A good blend of helpless and not obvious.”

“Is there another reason you brought us here, Mother?” Francis asks tiredly. She can tell he is annoyed she interrupted them.

“I just wanted to let you know that you two have to be more careful. I’ve already heard that Mary visited Lola and you two talking in dark corridors alone doesn’t give off the impression of a faltering marriage. Do I need to remind you how important this is?”

“No,” Francis says shortly and Catherine fixes him with a look that he ignores.

“Is that all?”

“Yes,” Catherine snaps, angry at her son for giving her cheek. But Francis doesn’t seem to notice, or care, for there’s a crown on his head that isn’t on his mother’s. The two leave the room, after Catherine reminds them to go separate ways.

* * *

She sees him at the end of the hallway later that day, standing with his back to her, gesturing something to Lord Adrien. She pauses, her eyes trained on his back, and she can feel an invisible tether tugging at her heartstrings, pulling her closer to him. And she wants to listen to it, she wants to pull him away from Lord Adrien, she wants him to tell her what he’s thinking.

She wants him to be as affected by her absence as she is with his.

She wants him to not have a child with someone that isn’t her, she wants him to make time for her, she wants him to understand her anger, she wants to not be mad at him for leaving her.

But mostly, she wishes for the way they used to be. She even wishes for when Francis was trying not to love her. She wishes that her heart wasn’t growing harder with every day that passes, she wishes she could stop.

So instead, she goes against every bone in her body and turns, her head held high as she walks away from Francis. And she nearly doesn’t feel any regret when she does so and she wonders if it’s her heart beginning to heal.

What she doesn’t know is that Francis saw her, that he watched as she walked away from him, that he too felt that tether and he too felt that worry for her heart.


	6. Give Up the Ghost

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the long wait.
> 
> song is give up the ghost by rosi golan because i couldn't resist.

There are a lot of things Mary doesn’t mean to do. She doesn’t mean to lash out at her friend, she doesn’t mean to push away Francis, she doesn’t mean to let her heartbreak guide her.

But mostly, in this moment, she doesn’t mean to walk down the one hallway that holds Francis’s office, the one hallway that she happens to be able to hear what is in his office, the one hallway that has the one room that Bash and Francis are talking in.

And so she is walking by this hallway she always walks down, her mind on the meeting she just had with her uncle and her advisors. Scotland is in deeper peril than ever but now that Francis is king, he has been significantly more reasonable than his father ever was. They aren’t getting all they need, since France has its own priorities, but they’re closer than they used to be. But then she sees the open door and she hears the voices and of course she stops and of course she listens and of course she waits with bated breath.

“So, how have you been?” she can hear Bash’s voice say.

“How do you think?” Francis replies dryly.

“You may be king but I’m your brother. Don’t avoid the question.”

“Honestly? Exhausted. Lola and I have been alternating nights to spend with Pauline. She just wails all night but when she finally stills, she’s…beautiful. Sometimes I wonder if I would be as prepared for fatherhood if I had known about it sooner. But Lola made her own decisions and I’m forced to live with them as I live with my mistakes,” Francis says and Mary’s heart pangs at the tone in his voice at the mention of Pauline. “The thing is, it’s so hard to think of Pauline as a mistake because I love her so very much. I’m not saying that I don’t regret sleeping with Lola, because I do. But Pauline makes it hard.”

Mary involuntarily takes a step back, her heart hammering as she struggles to take in a full breath. She knows Francis doesn’t feel anything whatsoever for Lola anymore but Pauline is a very real part of his life, one that she can’t bring herself to be jealous over like she does of Lola. She wants so badly for Francis to talk about _their_ child as he does about Pauline and that familiar pit begins to form in her stomach.

She quickly banishes it, knowing what will come next and instead listens to the conversation once more.

“Why does it have to be Mary or Pauline and not Mary _and_ Pauline?” she can hear Bash saying now.

“I wish it could be, but Mary is so headstrong that she isn’t willing to let me in again. I’m attempting to give her space to think through her thoughts and be ready to come back to me. But sometimes I look at her and she seems to far away. I feel as I could reach out and touch her, but there’s something between us. I wish she could see it the way I do. We can be together without hurting each other, I know it’s possible.”

“Have you tried telling her that?”

“Not exactly. Whenever I’m around her, I seem to lose all sense when it comes to us. All I can think about is her coming back to me and how I’d do anything to make that happen. I think I push her too hard sometimes and she only retreats away once more,” Francis says, pausing. “Sometimes I worry. That each time she pulls away from me, she’s only getting farther away. That I’m losing her even more each time. I can’t stand the thought of being like my mother and father but she seems adamant to make us that way. I _love_ her and I just don’t know how to show that to her. Sometimes telling her isn’t enough.”

“Take it from someone who has at first hand experienced the depth of your love; what you and Mary feel for each other isn’t ever going to go away. Either of you could die in the next year and the other would carry it with them to their death.” Bash frowns before continuing slowly, “I think that Mary knows how you feel about her but she isn’t sure that that love can do more than just break each other’s hearts. My advice to you would be to not try and prove that you love her, but to prove that that love can be your strength, not your weakness.”

Mary doesn’t wait to hear Francis’s response and instead pivots around, walking away from him. She finds herself in the very unique position of not wanting to hear what Francis thinks of Bash’s advice. A part of her wants him to listen to his brother, to fight for her. But the other half wishes for Francis to accept that she wants space and doesn’t want all that comes with being in love with him. But all of her aches for Francis to talk about their child in the way he talked about Pauline, she aches for Lola to be her friend again, she aches for anything but this.

And besides, if Francis doesn’t end up listening to Bash, all it will show is that he isn’t putting all of him into fixing their marriage and that is one thing Mary cannot help but dread.

 

The next time Mary sees Francis, they’re in a council meeting discussing the next steps for Scotland and England. Francis doesn’t want to claim England as much as his father did, and their troops are spread too thin to launch any sort of attack. But he does glance at her throughout the meeting, making sure she agrees with his decisions.

It’s not customary for the queen consort to sit in on meetings but Francis invites her to each and Mary has gotten particularly good at dealing with lords who do their best to ignore her. This particular meeting is about Scotland, so not inviting her queen would be unfathomable.

Though they aren’t on the best of terms, she enjoys these moments with Francis, sitting with their advisors and working out what is best for their countries. It’s not all she’s ever wanted—they still have trouble being alone in the same room with each other, he still has Pauline and she still has to manage Conde—but she’s learned to take pleasure in the things that give her any small semblance of happiness and hope. And working by Francis’s side certainly does that.

When the meeting begins to close and the maps are being rolled up, the advisors trickling out of the room, Mary gravitates towards Francis without even noticing. He barely looks up from the map he’s studying but she can tell it’s taking him an enormous amount of effort. She opens her mouth to speak when someone crosses her vision.

Prince Louis is talking animatedly with the Viscount d’Angers as he walks by the king and queen. He glances up at Mary, his gaze flickering to Francis. He frowns, looking between the two of them and Mary takes a step back, all the while pretending she hasn’t seen him yet. Louis returns to his conversation, but as he leaves the room, she catches him turning to look at Francis and Mary, who are now alone in the room. She pretends to examine the papers before her, flipping through them, but she can see Francis’s jaw clenching each time she looks up without meaning to.

After several minutes of Mary waiting for him to say something and Francis trying not to say something, he straightens himself and rolls up the maps. The guards by the door shift, ready to follow him out of the room.

“I have to discuss the tariffs with the Marquis de Brest. Could we—?” he starts. “Could we talk when I’m finished?”

Mary studies him for a moment, the way his Adam’s apple bobs, the way he’s biting the inside of his cheek, the way he’s struggling to keep his breath even. She nods and notices the way his lips twitch almost imperceptibly.

And she can’t help but watch as he leaves the room, her eyes never leaving his back until he’s turned the corner and they can’t follow him anymore.

 

Later, she sees Louis, and Catherine past him giving her a look with a meaning that is not lost on Mary. But she ignores her mother-in-law and pretends not to notice Louis. She supposes Catherine will have to settle with a small smile in passing to the prince and she continues on her way. She can feel Catherine burning a hole in her back with her gaze but she only turns the corner. She’s not entirely sure where she’s going but she finds that she isn’t surprised when she finds herself at Francis’s door.

There aren’t any guards stationed outside, so he must not be within but she nevertheless looks around and slips into the room quietly. The room is empty, as she thought but it’s after midday; he’ll be returning to his rooms to draft letters and sign papers in private as he always does.

She’s in the room for not ten minutes before a page comes in.

“Your Grace!” the boy says, his eyes widening as he takes in her presence. He quickly bows before continuing in a shaky voice, “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“Yes, actually, thank you. Might you know where King Francis is?” she asks. The page swallows and shuffles his feet, looking at the ground.

“Well, the last time I saw him, he was in the corridor…” the boy says softly.

“Do you know where he is now?” she asks gently.

“Well, he was on his way to…” His last words are swallowed in his mumble and Mary is forced to lean forward.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” she says.

“He was with the Lady Lola,” the page says all in one breath. Mary feels the breath empty out of her as the words settle in but she doesn’t let herself react the way she might have a month ago.

“The Lady Lola or their child?” she forces out, steeling herself for the answer.

“I’m not entirely sure, Your Grace,” he says. “But I know that he was last seen going into either of their rooms not five minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” she says, praying for what she is thinking isn’t true. He wouldn’t. She knows he wouldn’t. He keeps talking about wanting to fix them, about how he still loves her, how Lola means nothing. There was a time when she would trust him to only be with Pauline, but she isn’t sure what to think anymore. She smiles weakly at the page before leaving the room. All she has to do is go by Pauline’s room to see if Francis and Pauline are there and her fears will be assuaged. She can do that, she can make it to the room.

And so she does just that, her heart still slamming away in her chest despite all her own reassurances that she was misunderstanding the page’s words.

When she finally makes it to Lola’s room, there’s a page standing outside of it. Mary can feel her stomach drop. She lifts herself up and attempts to look completely impassive. She smiles kindly at the page as she stops before him.

“Is the Lady Lola within?” she asks, clasping her hands together. The page flushes bright red, avoiding her eyes. She wills herself to keep her face empty of emotion.

“Thank you,” she says. “That was all the answer I needed.”

A voice in her head whispers that it’s possible Francis is just with Pauline elsewhere, that the page was just nervous to be in the presence of a queen, that perhaps Francis is not alone in Lola’s rooms. Maybe they were just with Pauline together, maybe they barely even talked, maybe she is just making too much of nothing.

But the more she tries to convince herself it’s not true, the more she starts to believe it is.

The space between her own rooms and Lola’s seems endless and she feels as though she is wandering in circles. She counts herself lucky that she hasn’t seen anyone around yet, for she has no idea what she looks like now with her mind spinning.

Perhaps she spoke too soon, because the minute she worries about someone seeing her in this state, someone rounds a corner. Or rather, two people round a corner.

This time, Mary really does feel as though all air has left her body.

It’s Jeanne, carrying Pauline in her arms. The wet nurse is bobbing the baby up and down, cooing at her.

“Oh, Your Grace! I didn’t even see you there,” she says when she sees Mary. “Apologies.”

“It’s quite all right, Jeanne,” she says, wondering if the woman knows that all her worst fears were just confirmed in the span of a minute. The page’s words about Francis’s whereabouts ring in her mind as Jeanne continues on and passes the young queen. He’s not with Pauline… The page was embarrassed when she asked if Lola was within…

There is no denying it now. Francis is with Lola, most likely alone.

She keeps walking, feeling her world tumbling around her. Just when she thought her heart couldn’t be broken more, it just was. She didn’t expect it to hurt this much and with each step, it only gets worse. She is suddenly thrust back into the moment of riding away from Francis with Bash by her side, the sound of Francis’s calls to her echoing in her ears. But this time, it’s Francis who is doing the breaking, not her. Her steps quicken as she attempts to get to a more private place, the emotions inside her building up.

She trusted him when he said Lola meant nothing to him. She trusted him when he said he loved her. She trusted him when he said she was enough.

She finally makes it to her own rooms, shutting the door and leaning against it. She doesn’t cry, she hasn’t in a while, she realizes. She just stands there, the image of Francis and Lola alone in her rooms burned onto her mind.

_I want a family more than anything_ , he had said to her.

It seems he wanted a family more than he wanted her.

 

 

She comes to his rooms late that night, full of resentment and disappointment in him. Hammering on the door, she completely ignores his stuttering page, who is telling her that he can simply fetch His Majesty. Mary snaps at him, telling him that her husband can fetch himself.

When Francis finally opens the door, it’s to a very red faced page standing meekly behind his infuriated wife. The page begins to say that Her Grace wishes to have a private word with him but Francis brushes him away, simply letting Mary in and closing the door behind her.

“You know, I was starting to want to mend things between us!” she says the second the door shuts. Francis recoils, a frown forming.

“What are you—“

“I thought we actually had a chance! I thought you were willing to give us that chance but evidently I was wrong. Do you know how it feels for me to be constantly let down by you?”

“Mary, what—“ he tries to start again but Mary continues to talk over him.

“I was going to come to your rooms today to talk! Imagine that, me thinking we could come back from this, that you were actually making an effort.”

“Mary, I have no idea—“

“Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m talking about. I know about you and Lola,” she nearly snarls. “Your page let it slip how you went to her rooms today. Yes, he told me when I was coming to you, to ask you if we could be the people we used to be. And he told me that you had gone to visit the Lady Lola. So I just assumed he meant Pauline. That is, until I saw Jeanne leaving Lola’s rooms carrying your daughter. Really, Francis? You couldn’t just—“ her voice begins to falter as she nears the end of her sentence but she straightens herself up and continues. “You keep talking about wanting me back and wanting us to go back to the way we used to be. But if you want me, _fight_ for me.”

“Mary, I wasn’t with Lola,” he says, taking a step closer to her and taking her hands in his. Mary almost pulls her hands away but his words begin to sink in.

“What?” she asks softly.

“I wasn’t with Lola today. I took Pauline outside. Jeanne was just bringing her to me. I have no idea what Lola did today, I haven’t even seen her. Mary, please, you have to believe me, I want nothing more than to bridge this gap between us.”

Mary feels her bones relax as she begins to understand what he has just told her. She was so sure they were together, so without hope, so hurt that she hadn’t even imagined anything else.

“You weren’t with her,” she asks slowly, “at all?”

Francis shakes his head, his brow knotted and his lip caught between his teeth, waiting for her reaction.

“I suppose I owe you a bit of an apology,” she says.

“Mary, it’s—“

“No, I _am_ sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I should have trusted you. I just ignored you and barreled in here, blaming you for something that never even happened. I’m sorry,” she says again, shrugging. “Do you for—“

“Of course I do,” he says without hesitation. “You said you wanted to talk. Before you thought I had been alone with Lola. Do you still?”

“I’m still guarded and I’m still wary, but sometimes I look at you and all that goes away. I find myself torn between hope and caution and worry and hurt and I think I’ll always regret it if I don’t chose the former. So,” she takes a deep breath before continuing, “we will not sleep in the same room, we will act distant in public, we will find out Louis’s secrets. You cannot act jealous or angry with me. You are simply my king and I am simply your queen. In public, we are but allies.” She pauses, thinking about her next words. “I can’t control how I feel about you. I can’t control the pull I feel when I’m around you. God knows I tried.”

“And in private?” he asks and there’s definitely hope in his voice.

“In private, we try to fix this.”

\-----

Two figures shrouded in shadows are standing by the lakes edge, talking in hushed voices. One carries an aura of sophistication and the other one of confidence and power. 

"Don’t think that because Charles favors you, you can do whatever you like with the Queen of France," the first voice says, his voiced hushed but very clearly angry.

"Charles doesn’t favor me, don’t be ridiculous, Paul," the other says derisively.

"I know why he isn’t as angry as he should be while you look up the Queen’s skirts," the other, Paul, says.

"I’m not looking up anyone’s skirts," he sighs. "Besides, she’s harmless. All she does it worry about her husband and his bastard. She’s no threat, I can tell you that."

"I hope that for your sake, you’re right," Paul says, though he doesn’t sound very convinced. "We don’t  _need_  her. All we need is the King, we’ve been told that millions of times. Stop getting distracted by anyone with legs and we can get back on track.”

"We could use her. Get information out of her about his whereabouts, when he will be where and why. No one would ever think of her spilling her husband’s secrets and by then, we’ll have power."

"So what, you want to make her your queen?" Paul sneers. "Think Mary will jump into bed with you after you’ve kidnapped her husband."

"Mary doesn’t care for Francis as much as you may think. They’re drifting away from each other."

"And she told you this?"

"Yes, actually, she did."

"And you believe her?"

"You should have seen her, Paul. The words just came rushing out her mouth like she couldn’t stop them. She’s miserable and it’s all down to her husband and her lady in waiting. I think she’s heartbroken and will do anything to fix herself. She may even become vengeful in the future and we can use what she can give us with that vengeance."

"She’s a queen, Louis, not some barmaid you bed at the local tavern with soft words and empty promises."

"She’s just a girl, barely a woman. I don’t think she could raise her finger to anyone."

"I don’t care, it’s too dangerous to get involved with her. Just stick to the plan and you won’t find yourself without a head," Paul says and Louis seems to finally quiet. "Now, let’s get down to business."


	7. Budapest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm so sorry it's been so long and i wasn't even planning on posting this but i figured i should do something rather than drag the update along. it was between this short one now and a long one later and people said i should post this one now. enjoy the fluff! song is by george ezra

Mary wakes with the shift of a body next to her. At first, it’s normal, easy, comfortable. She’s been sleeping alone for so long that having an indent on the other side of the bed is a welcome relief. But her heart soon nearly stops when this fact dawns on her. There’s someone in her bed. She stiffens, barely breathing as she tries to calm herself. She’s been sleeping alone for weeks, who would be in her bed?

And then she breathes in. And she breathes out. And she smells it.

It’s the smell of pine and lemon. A bit of sweat. And that indescribable smell attached to one person.

 _Francis_.

Mary relaxes in his arms, her heart slowing as she immerses herself in the sense of sleeping in someone else’s arms again. She can feel the rise and fall of his chest against her back, his arms wrapped comfortably around her. The early morning light warms her skin, their legs tangled, and it feels natural. The sheet is thrown casually over their bodies, the duvet pushed to the end of the bed. It’s effortless, easy. Like they could make it out of this.

And for a moment, lying in bed, in Francis’s arms, Mary finally feels hope bubble inside her. If they could get through this, they could get through anything. They would succeed where his parents had failed. They would _try_ , try for a baby, try for forgiveness, try for happiness. The warmth she feels spreading through her is something she hasn’t felt in too long. It’s contentedness, faith, hope and relief rolled into one.

It’s for this reason that she barely moves for the next half hour, just imprinting this feeling, this moment on her mind. She doesn’t want it to ever end and moving and waking Francis would only bring that closer. Besides, she wants to be the first thing Francis sees when he wakes up.

And he does wake up eventually, squinting in the bright light. There’s a split second where he barely bats an eye at their position and she knows that he was thinking what she was. She can see the moment that reality settles in him and he shifts away from her, blushing.

“Sorry, I—I didn’t do it on purpose,” he says. Mary frowns.

And then she laughs.

“What?” he asks and he’s the one to look confused now.

“You think I didn’t want this?” she asks once she stops.

“Yes?” he says warily. “I thought you wanted to take it slow. You’re not angry?”

“No, Francis, I’m not angry that we slept in the same bed together and ended up in each other’s arms. I’m barely even surprised,” she says softly. Francis smiles and seems to lean in almost imperceptibly. But he bites his lip and stays where he is.

He was going to kiss her, she realizes.

“I do want to talk though,” she says, a million thoughts running through her mind. “About where we are.”

“I’d like that,” he says, nodding.

“So. Where are we?”

Francis pauses, his brow furrowed. He sighs and finally says, “I love you. I know that. I know you know that. But I don’t want to push this, or push you. If you’re not ready for anything more than what we are right now, then I can wait. I’ll wait for you. For as long as you need.”

Mary opens her mouth to reply but she finds herself without the words to do so. Instead she buries her head in his neck, her arms wrapping around him tightly. He doesn’t move for a moment, like he can’t believe it, that he’s sleeping in the same bed with Mary once more, that she’s hugging him, that she’s here with him. He presses his lips to her cheek as she pulls away.

“I need time,” she says. “Just to sort through my trust for you. I’m still recovering from you leaving me—“

“Mary, I—“

“Wait, let me talk,” she says, putting her hand on his chest. “I’m still recovering from you risking our country for Lola and leaving me and it is going to take a while for me to trust you again, for me to heal. And I know that you are still angry with me for keeping Pauline from you, I can tell. We both need time to sort through our feelings. But what I’m saying is that I want to give ourselves that time instead of just pushing you away.”

“I think I was angry at you for lying to me about Lola,” Francis says slowly, “but I don’t really blame you for it now. You promised Lola you wouldn’t tell me and you kept that promise. I can’t fault you for being a good friend to her. I just wish you didn’t have to. Lying isn’t something that I ever want to have between us again.”

“It always tears us apart more than honesty would. We just need to tell each other everything, even if it isn’t important. That’s how we gain each other’s trust back.”

“So, no lying,” he says, hiding his smile.

“I think I can manage that,” she says and finds herself looking at his lips.

And suddenly she’s moving forward and she isn’t in control of her motions and then…

And then their lips are touching for what seems like the first time in months. He reacts to her touch immediately, his hand going to her neck and his lips moving against her softly. The sun hitting her back has nothing to do with the warm feeling spreading to her heart. They could have lain there kissing for hours and she wouldn’t notice and when they pull apart, she feels like it has been days.

“I didn’t mean to do that,” she says, laughing quietly and touching her fingers to her lips.

“I’m glad you did,” he says honestly and it feels like they’re young and naïve and in love again. They’re bashful and wary and it feels _good_. It feels like starting over.

Except this time, they’re going to do it right.


End file.
